


Linger

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:16:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder knows that the cost of happiness is being ever mindful of a broken past while never being buried by it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Linger

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mylar Fic Prompt: New Year's Resolution

_“Baby I've been here before   
I know this room, I've walked this floor   
I used to live alone before I knew you.   
And I've seen your flag on the marble arch   
And love is not a victory march   
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah”_   
**-Leonard Cohen,** _**Hallelujah**_

Mohinder slowly flutters his eyes open. Lying in bed, flat on his stomach, he pushes downward with his feet and out to the side with his arms, stretching out the remnants of sleep from his body. He relaxes and pushes his right hand up under the pillow beneath his head and twists slightly to the side, mumbling a quiet sigh.

He rests his gaze to the left and stares at the window. The overnight snowfall has draped a blanket of flakes across the pane and frosted the sides of the glass. He knows it is cold outside and can practically taste the chilled air, but the apartment is toasty warm. It was not until his fourth winter in New York that he had come to luxuriate in the thrill of sleeping naked while outside his window the world was slumbering, hibernating, dying--all to be reborn and reawakened later.

Mohinder lightly runs the fingers of his left hand along the bed sheet, upwards to the other pillow, still indented in the middle. He shifts over a few inches and presses his palm flat against its softness, feeling for whatever warmth is left, and works out a nonsensical mathematical formula for how much time has passed since the bed held another body.

He lifts his head and leans forward to put his face against the cooled fabric, and inhales. Mohinder can still smell _him_ and he smiles. He loves the lack of aurally offensive cologne that only serves to mask what is real, what is most important. This scent, still infused in the thread count, is far more intoxicating. It is the faint hint of a no name soap mixed in with that more natural muskiness.

When he has had his fill he lies back on his own pillow and stares off to the window again. Using his feet he manages to drag the blanket down his body until it only covers him from his hips downward. Feeling free, Mohinder kicks out his left leg and twists it backwards over the blanket so that it still rests over his hips and right leg while leaving the rest of his body in tune with the elements of the room. At the same time he pushes his left hand up under the pillow he is lying on, next to his right one.

More awake now, he takes the opportunity to rest and let his mind roam.

He should not want this. Not with _him_.

Mohinder blinks back his dismay at self-doubt and wills himself to exist in the worry-free present, within the protective walls of his apartment, in the safe haven of the bedroom. He has not felt this connected to his life since they first met and the days that followed--but that is no longer here or there. Still it is undeniable that the times they crossed paths are when Mohinder felt the breath of life spark him into existence and out of the restless standstill that threatened to consume him whole. What it had been and what it has become--somewhere a line connects the points but he has stopped trying to draw it. Not when they have this, right now.

It is difficult enough that they have to keep their relationship from everyone else, at least for the time being, to avoid prying questions laced in barely concealed judgements. A part of Mohinder wants to protect the feelings of his friends on the matter as much as his own. He convinces himself that the last thing they need while trying to maintain an air of normalcy amidst frightening political and social change against Specials is to be second guessing his state of mind or the motives of a man who once wished many of them an early trip into the hereafter.

Mohinder has gotten better at blanking his mind around Matt, who is otherwise preoccupied with his ex-wife Janice's return and a potentially powered child. With Maya, Mohinder avoids the subject all together and the daggers in her eyes from across the room remind him that the truth would constitute a betrayal by his own hand against her. She had already survived that type of devastation and Mohinder has no desire to visit it upon her again.

Observing Molly, he recognizes the suspicion in her eyes as she glances between them during the occasional briefing that she is allowed to sit in on. Mostly these are at gatherings for the Resistance, the work of opposing Senator Petrelli's self-loathing handiwork, that operate under the guise of a birthday or dinner with friends where a common goal has brought forth an allegiance amongst usually more cautiously cynical minds. Molly never voiced the questions in her scrutinizing eyes but at times her incessant staring is enough to make Mohinder look away and stammer, swallowing painfully from a suddenly dry throat.

By contrast, Bennet is predominantly focused on taking the lead, trying to explain the confusing complexities of Nathan's traitorous turn and the precision of Mohinder's actions as a double agent. If Bennet does know something he presents himself as being more concerned with Claire's well being at college. The unspoken order being that as long as their relationship does not interfere with the team and the mission, he needs not care to know about it.

As usual, Peter is a different story. He has not asked outright but Mohinder knows he has caught a glimpse of the show his memory centre has put on. Expressions of surprise gave way to concern and then Mohinder laboured under the weight of an inquisitive gaze while attempting to not give himself away. All in the same space together and Peter would be at his side, waiting for an indication; some sort of tell that Mohinder would rather be with the man on the other side of the room. Over time Peter became quietly accepting and offered a quirked though troubled smile. One day Mohinder will tell him the whole sordid truth, but for now he is thankful for Peter's willingness to play ignorant.

Mohinder's greatest obstacle is himself. When it is good, when he can accept the choice he has made while making a tentative peace with the past, it is as if life is broadcasting in technicolour. But just when he gets too comfortable, reveling in the rush and calm of being _happy_, he short circuits a glitch and unease turns his stomach and pounds his brain into a throbbing headache. He bites his lip and becomes distracted by internal monologues that highlight past screw-ups and poor judgment.

He should know better than to think--_than to believe_\--that they can be anything other than a terrible mistake. The better it is now, the worse it will be when it all comes crashing down. And it _will_ fall apart. Improperly dealt with issues will surely come home to roost and remind him of the penance that needs to be paid. Least of all the ghosts of the past will point with scorn at his fallibility and unbelievable capacity to take into his heart the same man who once was inclined to rip it out.

Judging by how Mohinder feels (and this morning is the latest culmination of very personal talks that have been transformed into the most intimate of unions), the inevitable heartbreak will be--

“You're doing it again.”

Mohinder's stomach lurches at the surprise interruption of being caught in a state of profound second-guessing and the sound of _that_ voice. As his heart speeds up he turns towards the bed and then onto his back to keep the blanket in place around his hips while not giving away any unintentionally salacious reveals. He places his hands beneath the back of his head, his chest rising and falling with his forced calmed breath, and he looks to the bedroom door.

Sylar is leaning against the frame in nothing but grey draw-string cotton pyjama pants. His eyes are narrowed in a fit of seriousness and his arms are folded across his bared chest. He is suffering from a severe case of bed head which has sent his short, dark hair into a myriad of directions.

Mohinder takes in a deep appreciative breath at the visual and offers him a sleepy smile. “Am I?”

His relaxed countenance runs counter to Sylar’s stern appearance and Sylar softens his eyes in response. “You're over thinking.”

“I _am_ prone to do that.”

“Well give it a rest until later.”

Mohinder watches Sylar saunter forward, arms at his side, confidently returning the steady gaze. He sits on the side of the bed, to Mohinder's left, with his left leg bent up on the bed and trails his left hand up Mohinder's chest, coursing his fingers through the dark hair. Stopping to rest just above Mohinder's heart, Sylar pushes down slightly. The pressing heat of his hand and the increased tempo of Mohinder's heartbeat strike a rhythm that causes Mohinder to bite his lip. Sylar breaks out the tiniest smile.

He leaps over Mohinder to lie next to him and Mohinder suppresses a mocking grin at Sylar's insistence to be on that side of that bed. Turning on his side to face Mohinder, Sylar props his head up on his angled left arm and gently places his right hand low on Mohinder's body, right where the blanket encircles his hips. Mohinder stares at the hand then brings his eyes up to Sylar who is watching him thoughtfully.

Maintaining eye contact, Mohinder feels Sylar's hand shifting lower and his breath hitches more out of anticipation than actual sensation. Sylar stops. Then he is dragging his fingers up Mohinder's body to the hollow at the bottom of his throat, up along the curve of his chin and finally to his mouth.

Mohinder parts his lips in expectation. Instead Sylar leans forward and kisses him. Soft at first it grows more insistent and Mohinder moves his left hand from behind his head to tightly grasp the back of Sylar's and pulls him closer. He arches up and Sylar slips his right arm across and under his body. Mohinder struggles to painlessly bring his right arm down, but the angle is awkward with Sylar pressed against him. Sylar does not notice or care and a vivid recollection from years earlier flashes through Mohinder's brain, eliciting an abrupt laugh.

“What?” Sylar moans as he presses kisses to Mohinder's jaw line.

“I was remembering the first time you kissed me,” Mohinder replies looking up at the ceiling with a knowing smile.

Mohinder glances at him when he pulls back and shifts his eyes to him with a trace of amusement. “I was trying to make a point,” Sylar says.

The provision of space, as small as it is, allows Mohinder to bring his right arm down, and he rests his hand on his stomach. “By throwing me up against the wall in the middle of an argument?” Mohinder asks and Sylar raises an eyebrow at the teasing tone.

“It turns out you like it a bit rough,” Sylar muses and tries for another kiss but Mohinder turns his face away.

“So says you.” Mohinder rests his left hand on top of his right one.

Sylar eyes him carefully then reaches for Mohinder's left hand, entangling their fingers, and brings it around to the back of his neck, pressing Mohinder's tips to the skin. They both remember far too well the memory conjured.

“You deserved that.” Mohinder traces his fingers against Sylar's skin.

“And you forgave me.” Sylar leaves Mohinder's hand where it is and brings his own to Mohinder's chest. He leans forward.

“Did I?”

Mohinder's tone is neither hostile nor joking. It exists somewhere in between and yet is far removed from either. Sylar pauses and pulls back. Mohinder sees his expression falter as hesitancy claims the twitch of his smile. He watches Sylar's Adam's Apple bob when he swallows, his eyes searching Mohinder's for an explanation.

Mohinder does not trot out the distant past as a joke or manipulation. He does not do it to make Sylar uneasy, although that certainly has its perks. It is more important than that. In moments like this a shift happens, pushing all the power into Mohinder's hands. And they both know it. Rarely does Mohinder get the chance to wield this type of control but when he does it is not lost on either of them.

He stares up into Sylar's very pensive face. Mohinder is drawn to the complexity of lines, angles and shadows that work in tandem to disguise and convey the unknowable confliction below. Furrowing his forehead, Sylar's eyes are painted darker under his heavyset brows and the tension in his jaw bites back words on his tongue. Yet there also exists a certain innocence in his being taken aback, his instinctive reaction of moodiness at Mohinder's own unexpected tonal change. The humanity of it, the juxtaposition of control and uncertainty, encourages an extolled exhalation of breath from Mohinder.

Slowly Mohinder drags his fingers from behind Sylar's neck, down along his right shoulder then back across his collarbone and up the front of his neck. For the most part Sylar remains still, never breaking his eyes away from Mohinder's. With his fingertips, Mohinder traces the darkened patch of Sylar's three days stubble that is peppered across his right cheek; Sylar turns very slightly into the touch.

Mohinder leans up and kisses him lightly on the lips. With both their eyes open, the kiss contains a question within its soft touch and Mohinder presses harder, closing his eyes and slipping his tongue across Sylar's lips. At the same time Mohinder moves his hand into Sylar's hair and strokes through the messy pieces that roughly jut out around his ear. Sylar moans, opening his mouth, and Mohinder tastes him as Sylar presses back just as hard.

Mohinder gives way to a smile when he feels Sylar's hand move from his chest to his neck, wrapping gently yet urgently around. He knows _this_ kiss, _this_ move very well. It is Sylar's way of showing that he cannot be undone by Mohinder, that he is as in this for the long haul or however much time they have.

Mohinder shifts back slightly and whispers against Sylar's panting mouth, “I'm glad you're here.”

The truth he speaks is blatant and naked. He _is_ glad that Sylar is here, with everything his presence entails. The unforgettable past, an exciting and anxious present, a hoped for and constantly rewritten future--the two of them are the only constants and even they are not givens. But what has come to exist between them has been there before it provoked either of them to act on it, with resistance at first in a storm of plausible deniability, and then skittishly, desirously, knowingly; all in the face of that which they have stopped trying so hard to make sense of.

Mohinder prefers the effort that comes with not knowing why or where it all comes from. This is not some useless New Year's resolution made with the intent of being broken when it proves to be more work than it is worth. Theirs is the unflinching choice, the undeterred drive to stay the course.

With their bodies moulded together, Mohinder waits for Sylar to reclaim the kiss. When he does it is more forceful and Mohinder feels suddenly restricted with his lower body twirled up in the blanket. Sensing his frustrations, Sylar drops his hand from Mohinder's neck down to his hips and tugs at the material. It is of no use and Sylar abruptly halts the kiss and looks down to here his hand is pulling at the blanket.

Mohinder arches up and, with a voice that sounds full of yearning, says, “Don't cut the blanket.”

Sylar mutters in irritation but smiles when he glances up at Mohinder. They begin a tumble of struggling limbs and overlapping laughter. Mohinder is turned over and over until Sylar is able to slip in under the blanket, immediately moving on top of Mohinder and settling between his legs. Mohinder sucks in a deep breath at the sensitive touch of his half hard cock rubbing against Sylar's still covered one. There is no mistaking Sylar's desire for him and Mohinder raises his feet to rest on the back of Sylar's legs. He moves the balls of his feet up Sylar's calves and down to his ankles, then up again, and down.

Mohinder does not blink; sure his own eyes are pooling dark in a mirror reflection of Sylar's. Mohinder trails the fingers of both hands across Sylar's shoulders. The heaviness of Sylar's stomach against his own, the friction of their chests slick with heat, and Sylar's hands firmly on his hips, anchors Mohinder and all he wants to do is hold on be overcome. He slides his hands up to Sylar's face and pulls him close until their lips hover a millimetre apart.

A pause in time stretches out seconds into an eternity.

“Are you finished?” Sylar asks without raising his voice above a careless whisper.

The movement of his lips vibrates the miniscule space between their mouths. “Finished?” Mohinder whispers, his eyes hovering half shut.

Sylar captures Mohinder's top lip between his and sucks on it lightly. Mohinder uses his lips to pull at Sylar's bottom one and tongues the heated skin. Then Sylar's right hand is traveling up from his hips, between their bodies. He feels Sylar's lower body push against his as Sylar breaks the kiss and shifts up on his left arm (which he has moved from Mohinder hip to the bed) to look down at him.

Sylar brings his right hand up Mohinder's face and drags his thumb in a small circle at the side of his forehead. “Are you finished letting your mind run away from you, talking you out of this? What you couldn't change, what you wouldn't.”

“For now--you can be very persuasive.” Mohinder runs the fingers of his left hand along the side of Sylar's chest.

Sylar twists his mouth into a teasing smile. “You ain't seen nothing yet,” he rumbles as he reaches down with his right hand to take a hold of Mohinder's and bring it up.

They both stare at their entwined fingers which Sylar holds firmly between their chests. He catches Mohinder's eyes. “Right now you're here.”

Yes. Mohinder's heart pounds and a flush of heat courses through his body. Despite the trepidation of earlier, Sylar's statement is a demand with little room to refute.

“And where is here?” Mohinder asks, amused and interested in the answer.

“The in between,” Sylar says as if the answer requires no further clarification.

Mohinder adjusts his right hand overtop Sylar's on the bed and leans up to place a kiss on his neck. It is a gesture he has noted before that Sylar likes, and by the way Sylar lets out a contented sigh and angles his head to give Mohinder better access it is a touch he has been craving. Dropping his head back to the pillow, Mohinder returns his heated gaze. “Our own little piece of space.”

Sylar places a kiss just below his right ear, and makes his way across his chest to place a kiss below the other ear. Mohinder melts into the feeling, throwing his head back further against the pillow.

“For how long?” Mohinder smiles.

Sylar pulls back and tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. “As long as it takes.” It is an unflinching declaration and the unspoken _'forever' _sounds out loud and clear.

Mohinder finds himself focusing on Sylar's lips, more red and swollen than normal. At the sight of Sylar's tongue tentatively licking across his lower lip, followed by him pressing faint indentations with his teeth into the skin, Mohinder smiles. “You can say that with certainty?” he mumbles, nearly incoherently.

“Do you doubt me?” Sylar questions and Mohinder immediately flits his eyes upwards to meet his penetrating gaze.

Mohinder frees his left hand from Sylar's grip and slides it around the back of Sylar's neck. “At the moment, no,” Mohinder slyly tones. “But I reserve the right to change my mind.”

Sylar smirks. “Fickleness, thy name is--,”

“Watch it.”

Mohinder steals the smirk with his lips, drawing Sylar into another deep kiss. Entangled limbs, their bodies move together, their tongues speak the physical rendering of what cannot be said--yet. Sylar grinds against him and a mutual groan of pleasure is called out between them.

There is no rationale behind them. There is no way they should exist and certainly not in the way that they do. In the in between where they stumble and cling, purposely, yet with caution, Mohinder knows he should not desire this. Not now and not outside of the room. He should not want this in any form or context.

But he does.

Apologies are for tomorrow.

This is now.   
 

**Author's Note:**

> Heroes Slash Awards  
> **Nominated for Best Fluff Fic**(Runner Up)
> 
> Mylar Fic  
> **Tied for First Place for Best Use of Prompt**


End file.
